


Don't Stop Me Now

by elliehase



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cheesy, Confessions, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:16:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29945739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliehase/pseuds/elliehase
Summary: Crowley sucks at admitting feelings, but Aziraphale even denies that they are actually friends. Though, the angel acts in the complete contrary, sending confusing signals all the time, what nearly sends Crowley around the bend. Occasionally, he thinks, it’s like an endless temptation with no end in sight and extraordinarily cruel. He can’t even tell who is tempting whom.He shakes his head gloomily. Maybe there is an end in sight, today, when they both get discorporated for their secret consorting. Hurray.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 47





	Don't Stop Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> This story is following right after "I Want To Break Free", but if you know the Good Omens' show you will understand the plot anyways. The characters belong to Terry Pratchett und Neil Gaiman and most of the dialogue in Hell is straight from the TV series. First part of the story is inspired by Hozier's song 'From Eden'. Hope you enjoy!

It was lo-... _something_ at first sight. 

  
The angel of the Eastern Gate stood atop Eden’s outer wall, facing the deserted land with a concerned glance. His wavy fair hair reflected the setting sun, some soft rays gently embraced his contours. Gray clouds were piling over the garden. With his white robe and the dark atmosphere forming around him, he looked bright and shining like a star in the night sky.

  
He was the most fascinating thing Crawly had ever seen.

  
And Crawly had seen a lot of things in his immortal existence. In the old days he had been an angel himself, a builder of blazing stars and astonishing constellations. But none of his creations ever radiated in such a wonderful warm glow, giving him satisfaction and ease at once. There was something magical about the other man, which is why Crawly couldn't avert his gaze.

  
So the serpent observed the beautiful chubby angel quite a while. From a safe distance, of course. As a demon he had straight orders from Hell to cast some trouble in the Garden of Eden. It was highly inappropriate to reach out to the opposition by whatever means, he guessed, or even conveying interest in an angel in the first place. Probably it was forbidden as well. Something demons ought not to do.   
He did anyway.

  
Strictly speaking, Crawly didn’t cross a line here. He wasn’t in close contact with the angel, staying at the apple tree most of the time, fulfilling his demonic duty. No one ever said he couldn’t sneak away occasionally and admire his new encounter from afar, though. Nothing wrong in it. At least until it became his favourite occupation of the day.   
Crawly watched the serene beauty and listened carefully to every word that emerged these rosy lips, straining to find out more about the angelic guard, trying to get the whole picture. Every piece of the puzzle dragged him closer each day. He liked the way the blond yielded his flaming sword when he was practicing some quite impressive combat moves. He liked the way how politely the other man was talking to God’s newest creations (especially the animals), just like he really cared. And he absolutely adored the way the angel’s name rolled off his tongue. _Aziraphale..._ The demon whispered it a couple of times just to listen to the melodic sound.

  
After seven days Crawly came to the conclusion, that the angel of the Eastern Gate wasn't a threat or dangerous at all, only confirming his initial impression. In fact, there was something tragically lonesome about him. It was almost like looking into a mirror, finding someone as isolated as yourself. No other angel came to talk to him, even God never answered his prayers. That situation felt strangely familiar. Crawly wanted to get closer to the other man straightway, literally craved for a conversation with every fibre of his body. If there was the slightest chance, that the blond angel could truly understand how he feels, that they both are broken in some way, maybe they could feel wholesome again by being together.

  
So Crawly had stood frozen in indecision for what seemed like forever, thinking of the right way to approach, the right words to say. A feeling of nervousness overwhelmed him. The first impression counted, after all.  
And the foremost thing that popped into his mind was, “That one went down like a lead balloon.”  
Well. Could have been worse, right?

  
They barely knew each other, but as they started talking, it felt like they had known each other for far longer than just a minute. Aziraphale treated him as equal, even though Crawly had revealed his black wings, openly showing his demonic nature. There was no loathing, no rolling eyes, no distrust in the angel’s voice. It was ... odd. Something, Crawly had never experienced before. 

  
From up close he could study the other man’s face even better. His far too cute button nose and his ridiculously bright blue eyes, just to name but a few. It completely captured the redhead. The way Aziraphale smiled, chuckled in a warm tone as Crawly mentioned their possible misstep, finally tipped him over the edge. It seized his chest with something deeper than admiration.

  
When raindrops started to pour at the very first time on earth, the demon gazed insultingly upon the sky. It felt cold and wet and absolutely annoying on his skin. The snake-like part inside of him immediately wanted to curl away and hide somewhere safe and warm. The other part clearly wanted to stay right next to Aziraphale, cautiously coming closer. Without a second thought or expecting any kind of counter-performance, the blond stretched his impressive white wing to shield Crawly. 

  
And that was when the demon had fallen for the angel completely.

  
Crawly knew on the spur of the moment that he had met the kindest person in his godforsaken life. Cheesy but true. He remembered clearly what Heaven was like. Not as nice as everyone thought it would be, though. On the one hand, he was bored stiff all the time. No temptations or decent drinks, for instance. But worst of all were the conceited archangels and their stupid duties and expectations they placed on every low-ranking angel. 

  
Curiosity and self-determination were two words that simply didn’t appear in Heaven’s vocabulary. As well as ‘Thank you for your hard work’ or ‘We really appreciated that you’ve done this whole crap without questioning it in the first place’ or just a simple ‘Your last nebula was mind-blowing, you incredibly talented angel’. 

  
It’s not that Crawly was demanding or so. Really! But for some kind words you’d wait in vain.

  
To be fair and square, in Hell they won’t offer you cookies either (Crawly really tried to convince his fellow demons to put more effort into the right acquisition, but incomprehensibly it never fell on understanding ears). Demons don’t trust each other, they don’t even have a single feeling for one another except suspicion. You certainly don’t make friends in Hell. It is a place full of loneliness.

  
Aziraphale was the first person who ever cared about Crawly at all, noticing things no one noticed, really looking at him and not at the demonic shell. A pure angel as people believe angels should be, with kind and untainted affection. And that was truly something remarkable, because after six thousand years with a troublemaker like him, a demon, his hereditary enemy, Aziraphale never stopped caring.

* * *

Now, millenniums later, Crowley rolls that memory dearly between his fingertips, realizing that this _thing_ with Aziraphale (he wouldn’t label it, but... the heck with it!) is the most constant and precious relationship he’d ever had. Not that he actually had any kind of relationship before to prove his point. But Crowley is working on that, slowly and persistently, cropping up every time the angel needs a helping hand and in return giving him enough space to breath. It’s a neat strategy, knowing where the ammunition is and never dropping the bombshell in the first place. Like a gentleman.

  
Okay, bollocks to that. It’s a shitty metaphor and a lousy strategy!

  
Crowley sucks at admitting feelings, but Aziraphale even denies that they are actually friends. Though, the angel acts in the complete contrary, sending confusing signals all the time, what nearly sends Crowley around the bend. Occasionally, he thinks, it’s like an endless temptation with no end in sight and extraordinarily cruel. He can’t even tell who is tempting whom.

  
He shakes his head gloomily. Maybe there is an end in sight, today, when they both get discorporated for their secret consorting. _Hurray._

  
Nervously Crowley fiddles with the golden chain of the angel’s pocket watch, while he is waiting for Aziraphale to arrive at St. James’s Park. Right after they settled the plan on tricking their superiors, they arranged a meeting at their favourite spot to give the impression it’s their first gathering of the day. However, time seems to pass slow (slower than their nonexistent relationship, hah).

  
Awkwardly he reaches for the bow tie around his neck, tugging at the collar of his shirt to get some air. Not for the first time this day, he thinks that the angel’s clothing is bloody uncomfortable... and unquestionable out of style. Even sitting in his usual manner (lounging broad-legged with one arm over the backrest) is unbearable with all the different layers and stiff fabric Crowley is momentarily wrapped in. So his position is more upright than it ever was in his whole damn existence.

  
Almost against his will Crowley feels himself relax as he sees a man with ginger hair slowly approaching, hands in his pockets with an unimpressed look on the face, who nonchalantly places himself on the bench right next to him. The demon bites back a grin. His friend is outrageously good at playing his role, that’s for sure.

  
“Any sign of your lot so far?” The undercover angel asks straightforward, looking around suspiciously.

  
“Nope, as quiet as a... as a...” Crowley searches for the right metaphor (Duck isn’t the answer here, he guesses) and fails. “Whatever,” he finishes lamely. “You haven’t missed a thing.”

  
“I’m sorry.” It’s unclear if he’s apologizing for being late himself or for the unsettling fact that Heaven and Hell are bloody bastards, who are clearly heating up the tension for a surprise attack.

  
“Don’t be. I’ve the nasty feeling they’ll show up soon ‘nough.”

  
A gnawing feeling follows right after that, soaring inside his chest. It’s one of those ‘spit out the truth before you might die’ moments he loathes in every single emotional movie. But actually he has something _truly important_ to say before they are jumping into a shit storm here. Before they have to part, and he might not get the chance to explain ... _things_. Crowley sighs deeply, picking nervously at the skin on the side of his thumb. Now or never.

  
“Ang-” Crowley breaks off mid-word, noticing he’s not using the right term in his current corporation. Awkwardly he clears his throat. “I mean, _dear_... I ought to tell you something, before... you know.”

  
“Please, go ahead,” says Aziraphale, shooting him a concerned look over the black sunglasses, what makes it even worse to continue.

  
“Something happened,” he starts and swallows abruptly, afraid of what the angel will feel about him after his doomed words. “It’s about the present you gave me in 1967. I ... erm ... used it recently. So perhaps at the trial, they will not only accuse me of treason. They might tell you that I murdered someone of my folk.” He pauses, waiting for a reaction, but Aziraphale remains thoughtfully silent. Adrenalin shoots through Crowley’s system. It isn’t that bad when the angel isn’t responding at all, right? Right? “It’s true and I’m not sorry about that, by the way. So don’t be too shocked when it comes up. It’ll ruin the bluff.”

  
“Okay,” the angel says, numbly.

  
For the first time, Crowley is annoyed of his dark glasses, which hide perfectly Aziraphale’s expression at the very moment. Although, he can clearly imagine what it looks like. It hits him with startling clarity.  
“You’re disappointed with me, aren’t ya?”

  
“You had your reasons, I suggest. I’m just glad you didn’t apply _the_ _present_ ,” he spit the word like it was something disgusting in his mouth, “to yourself.”

  
Crowley bites his lower lip, feeling shame welling up inside him. He could mention that it never was his intention to use the holy water as a suicide blast, but they already had that particular argument before and it wasn’t a pleasant conversation, he recalls quite vividly.

  
“I just wanna say,” he adds instead, “that my lot hasn’t got ineffable mercy. And they’re certainly not afraid to resort to violence. Be careful down there, okay?”

  
To his confusion, however, a sudden smile tugs on the angel’s face. It’s small and soft and somehow sad. “The same goes for you. My kind can be pretty demonstrative, too.” Aziraphale hesitates, before he leans forward. His breath brushing across the demon’s face as he whispers, “Last time I saw the archangels, Michael was pretty furious with me not following the divine plan. Can you imagine, Uriel even called you my boyfriend, _ridiculous of course_ , and pinned me to the wall while Sandalphon gave me a blow in the solar plexus.”

  
“They did WHAT?!” Crowley bursts out, obviously not able to hide his surprise and anger. And anger is the primary feeling that’s overwhelming him right now. He curses Sandalphon and all the other gutless bully-archangels, feeling molten-hot rage seeping into his veins by every word. His blood is boiling right now. “I’ll make that bastards ssssuffer!” He hisses, the words fueled by enough fury to power a whole city block. “One by one they’ll experience the agonizing torture the lowest of the damned in Hell are exposed to! I promise you, they’ll suffer even worse for the next millennium! And when their damn celestial essences are about to crumble I-”

  
“Calm down!” Aziraphale waves a hand to silence him. “Don’t be irrational. Think of the paperwork, for God’s sake!” He shakes his head dispraisingly. “Quite apart from the fact, that your extremely dramatic suggestions are not even close to a proper handling of that past situation. Your malice prepense will just start a war again.”

  
“But-”

  
“No revenge! Am I clear?”

  
Crowley’s jaw is working as he grounds his teeth together in frustration.   
“Fine”, he grits out, not pleased. Secretly he agrees with his malice that scaring the shit out of the archangels (at least Sandalphon) is more than okay and absolutely not irrational.

  
Most demons aren’t deep down evil. Crowley takes no delight in doing his demonic job (even so he would be the last to admit it) and he certainly would never harm a person without a serious reason. When he thinks about it, killing Ligur was the first time he overstepped the mark for his own sake. Blowing up some Nazis, beheading a French executioner... he did all that for Aziraphale. So perhaps Crowley’s already dysfunctional moral compass is even more confused and points in the wrong direction when he is near the angel.

  
Huh, strange, Aziraphale behaves just like a disturbing magnetic field. In an incredibly flattering and charming way, though. The demon is honestly concerned about the kind of power the angel has over him and how remarkably easy it would be for him to use it against Crowley.

  
“But”, Aziraphale emphasizes, derailing the demon’s train of thought, “behind your disturbingly vindictive reasoning I can clearly see your generous intentions. So... thanks for your will to defend me. Deep down you are, after all, a ni-”

“Don’t you dare and say _this word_ out loud!”

  
The angel raises a questioning eyebrow. “Will you ever let me finish that sentence?”

  
“Nope,” he answers enthusiastically, popping the ‘p’ at the end. “Because I won’t let you lie straight to my face, ang-... _dear_.”

  
“I beg your pardon!?” Aziraphale clenches theatrically one hand at his chest, sounding somehow offended. “It’s not a lie at all!”

  
Crowley shrugs, unimpressed. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

  
Sure, Crowley is far away from being good and absolutely far away from being completely evil, but _nice_ , ugh... No. Nonono, he isn’t nice! Even the sound of the word appears inappropriate and causes him physical pain.

  
“I don’t need sleep,” the angel mutters confused. He makes his frowny face, as always when he’s not firm with a human idiom. Crowley could enlighten him, but what gave him the right to correct other people?

  
Yeah, right.

  
The demon opts to ignore this particular subject, focusing on their primer problem again by scanning the park in a discreet way. Both men remain in perfect silence for a grand total of thirty seconds, before Crowley is struck with a sudden thought. 

  
“Mice!” he shouts. “Of course!”

  
Aziraphale stares blankly.

  
“That’s it,” the demon adds almost triumphantly. “They are as quiet as mice.”

A smile flickers across the angel’s face as if he’d heard a joke no one asked for. “Let’s have some ice cream to kill the long wait. What do you think?”

“And miss the extraordinary fun observing the park in a nerve wrecking state of uncertainty? Hell, yes!”  
Crowley sighs in relief, jumping right ahead. He had been fraught and fidgety ever since they had left his apartment, but now it’s even worse. This tense situation makes him feel trapped and uneasy like a restless, caged animal.

Maybe there’s still time to get off to Alpha Centauri?

Aziraphale, perfectly emotional controlled, is the first at the ice cream cart, placing their order. It’s not a surprise that the angel knows exactly his favourite flavour. Since 1668, when they visited the grand opening of the first ice cream parlor in France, it never changed. The demon shoots one longing glance at the strawberry lolly, before he grabs the vanilla ice with the flake. Their fingertips barely touch, but it feels like a lightning strike beneath Crowley’s skin, hot and frizzling. This simple and totally unintended touch sends goosebumps across his skin and a blush to his cheeks. It’s ridiculous. And a realization finally hits him. 

That could be their _last meal._

  
Their last _everything._

  
The thought horrifies him and the gnawing feeling comes right back and takes over control of his body. If anything goes wrong today, if the witch’s prophecy isn’t accurate at all, or they just misinterpreted it, Crowley might never get the answer to the most important question of his whole existence. It feels like something inside him will burst, if he doesn’t ask it at this very moment. He runs his tongue across his suddenly dry lips and musters all his courage.

  
“How’s the car?” 

  
Indeed, that’s a _very_ , very important question. It isn’t the question that truly bothers him, though. And Crowley doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh, cry or slam his head against the ice cream cart repeatedly, because... ugh. He is so undeniably awful in verbalizing his feelings. It sucks deeply. He scolds his traitorous mouth, which decided to mutiny without warning.

  
Despite Crowley’s inner struggle his face stays perfectly frozen, not showing any sign of distress. They talk about the car, the bookshop and about the worrisome fact, that Heaven and Hell are suspiciously non-present. At this moment Death shows up. Uh-huh, that’s definitely a bad omen...

  
His pulse immediately skyrockets as someone (who is tragically not Aziraphale this time) wraps his strong arms around him, sealing his mouth with one hand. Some kind of fight-or-flight instinct screeches at Crowley as he shouts words in a useless attempt against the other man’s palm. He can see the tension rising in Aziraphale’s expression, as he stumbles forward, trying to help him.

  
_No, angel, no, shit, no!_

  
His mind is racing, but all he could think of is how to warn Aziraphale about Hastur, who is secretly approaching from behind with a crowbar. And then, in a blink of an eye, everything becomes disturbingly bright white.

* * *

His head hurts. That’s the first thing Aziraphale notices. The next is a disgusting smell of sulphur, stinging his nose unpleasantly. He blinks in confusion as his blurred surroundings slowly swim into focus. The place he is caught in, appears empty, except for a white bath tube that’s almost strategically illuminated by a perpetually flickering light. The rest vanishes in a murky darkness. Mold, dust and dirt covers the floor and the walls, giving the impression of a sticky and seedy station toilet.

  
Hell. This must obviously be hell.

  
Aziraphale swallows and tries to prepare himself mentally for what is coming now. His life has becoming inadvertently complicated and unordered and dissolute due to Crowley. That’s a fact that cannot be denied. At the same time, when the redheaded demon is with him, it’s somehow okay that his life has become a complete mess. Strangely, even more than okay... And that’s a fact he’ll clearly deny, if anyone should bother to ask.

  
“Rise for the Lord of Hell, traitor!”

  
Someone, probably a guard, is pushing him roughly to his feet. 

  
Beelzebub hovers majestically into the room, followed by the Duke of Hell, Hastor, and the Lord of Files, Dagon, and placed themself on their throne. Immediately, the lights around Aziraphale brighten up, revealing more gawking demons behind a large window.

  
A bead of sweat begins to form on Aziraphale’s forehead, and trickles slowly down into his eye. But this remains the only sign that he is deep down a nervous wreck. He is sensing the open hatred that radiates towards him, the false Crowley. It nearly seems as if the redheaded demon had been some kind of nuisance for six thousand years and now they all are just glad to get rid of him. Especially Hastur is dead chuffed about it. That dumbfounded toad-head.

  
The Duke of Hell made a long plea, enumerating all the excesses, misconducts and frauds Crowley committed, and ending with the murder of Ligur. Somehow Aziraphale feels deeply sorry for Crowley to be stuck with this bunch of insensitive fools, all blind to see how nice and special he is. Well, the irreversible destruction of Ligur wasn’t nice, Aziraphale admits, but at least everything else the redheaded demon has done to save the world... to save him...

  
“Creaturezzzz of Hell, you’ve heard the evidence againzzzt the demon known azzz Crowley.” When Beelzebub speaks, Aziraphale almost gets the feeling as if a million flies are taking off in a hurry. It’s really annoying and slightly irritating. “What izzz your verdict?”

  
He doesn’t get a chance to defend himself. _Guilty,_ they cry in unison and Beelzebub nods their head, allowing the false Crowley some last words. Aziraphale shrugs unconstrained. His mouth producing impudent words, asking what his punishment will be, just in a mere attempt to act like the redheaded demon. Again it’s Hastur who gives him some vague respond, eager to finally elicit a reaction from him and enjoying every insecurity he can see.

  
_Letting the punishment fit the crime, huh?_

  
Some heavy footsteps lumber closer. A person dressed in shining bright white appears, carrying a carafe with a clarified liquid. As soon as Aziraphale recognizes the archangel, he frowns.  
“That’s unlikely”, he mutters.

The surprise of Michael’s appearance swiftly gives way to bitter disappointment. Not long ago, they accused Aziraphale to be a fallen angel, because he was consorting with the enemy. They made him feel ashamed, watching him crush under his overwhelming guilt for being disobedient. They made him perish the thought of becoming friends with the one person in his life he shared the best time in forever. And now Heaven and Hell have a secret cooperation, too? Working together to punish him?

It’s a blatant injustice, he realizes. Aziraphale had been on the verge of throwing his close affiliation with Crowley away, because he thought he’d betray his kind if they got even closer. To be a fallen angel in the eyes of Heaven was an image of a nightmare that preyed on his mind for so long. A notion of sinfulness the archangels ambitiously fostered anytime, always giving him the impression to fall short of expectations.

But they played with him all along. 

Anger seeps into Aziraphale’s veins, polluting his system, a feeling he never allowed himself to control his body before. His heart beats in his ribcage like it’s going to burst every minute. Oddly enough, it strengthens him, giving him the courage to rage against the authorities.

“Well,” says the false demon derisively. “This is a new jacket, and I’d hate to ruin it. Do you mind if I take it off?”  
Without waiting for an answer he snaps his fingers, taking care of Crowley’s clothing. As he graciously dips into the holy water, every demon stares in disbelief. That’s hilarious. And it gets even better when he asks for a rubber duck. Their faces are priceless. Aziraphale starts casually flicking holy water at the demons, and makes some vaguely menacing threats how powerful and mighty he is. Once he starts to act like a tough cookie, he can’t hold back. His current mood is so exuberant, he even wants to smash a song of that band, Crowley favors so profoundly. The melody of ‘Don’t stop me now’ rings in his ears.

Every demon from the lowest minion up to the highest position has a terrified expression on his face, staring mouth wide open, even the archangel Michael looks disturbed. Aziraphale smirks, eyes dancing with mischief. There it is, his chance to assault Michael as sassy and cheeky as Crowley would do it. He’ll be damned if he wastes even a second of it.

“Michael, _dude_ ,” he calls out, asking for a bath towel.

_Oh, he is such a naughty angel._

No one dares to argue with him or to thwart his actions. Aziraphale can clearly see the fear in their eyes as they comprehend, that he probably is no demon anymore, but some kind of hybrid-creature they can’t deal with. Brilliant.  
“I think,” he suggests sniffy, “it would be better for everyone, if I were to be left alone in the future.”

All according to plan, the Lord of Hell fears this scene could cause a riot and orders his immediate release, affirming him diplomatic immunity... well, at least for the next period. It’s just a breathing gap, but Aziraphale’s relieved that Crowley will be safe for even a short amount of time. That’s all he wanted.

* * *

After Aziraphale took the elevator up to the world’s surface, he carefully sneaks around every corner to avoid any followers. Just like one of those discreet detectives, he knew from his books. Not that he has actually read so much crime fiction, but in 1886 he has some inspiring conversations with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle over a cup of tea. Aziraphale really sympathized with the concept of an analytical and determined detective, who solves crimes just by detailed observation. But it occurred to him, that the prosaic Holmes needed a companion. Someone who grounds him. The more emotional counterpart in the story. It was just a flash of insight and it had truly surprised him, that Sir Conan Doyle finally seized the suggestion for his books.

  
“Jeez, there you are!” Crowley sighs and throws his hands up exasperatedly. He’s standing in a quiet backstreet near St. James’s Park, their secret meeting point that they arranged in advance. “You scared the crap out of me! What took you so long, angel?”

  
“Actually, a bath.” Aziraphale chuckles, puffing his chest out proudly, because... _because_! In his humble opinion, he managed to be just as suave and smooth as Crowley would have been in that situation. It makes him feel extremely alive. “A bath in nicely tempered holy water, to be precise. Oh dear boy, you should have seen their faces as I – _whew_!”

  
Air escapes his lunges as Crowley flings his arms around him fiercely, pulling him close. It’s not a gentle hug, not at all. It’s raw and furious and desperate.

  
“Is everything alright, dear?” Aziraphale asks concerned, instantly stiffening under the embrace. “You’re acting despite yourself.”

  
“Technically spoken, I’m not _myself_ right now. I’m you.” Crowley’s voice is thin like he’s wrestling with every word, gasping out a half-laugh, half-sigh at the end. It sounds distraught and not in the slightest funny. “And you’re one sentimental bugger. An angelic softy, hugging people unsolicitedly and unexpectedly all the time. None of this is very surprising if I’m in your corporation. Don’t complain.”

  
That logic seems rather convoluted to Aziraphale, but he isn’t going to mention it... or complain. The blurred haze of what is close to rejection passes across the demon’s eyes. It feels as if Crowley has revealed something, something personal and vulnerable. The angel wouldn’t dare to mess with his feelings, not on purpose.

  
“But you’re fine?” Aziraphale urges for an appropriate answer, suddenly afraid that something horrible might have happened at the trial in heaven. He needs to know, that the demon is alright. 

  
“I’m tickety _fucking_ boo.” A slightly hysterical laughter shaking Crowley’s body, before he tightens the embrace even more. “No, for real angel, ‘s alright,” he adds more sincere, pressing his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m fine. Right here with you. If that’s... if that’s okay.”

  
A smile unconsciously crosses the angel’s face. He carefully lays his arms on the other man’s back, holding him like something precious and fragile as if he’s made of tissue paper about to crumble beneath his fingers.

  
“Sure,” he says quietly, “because you’re always there for me in times of need. And I dare not be the one who’s out of character.” Aziraphale hesitates before he runs one hand soothingly through the demon’s hair. “In this situation you would probably patter and crack some jokes to ease my mind, I guess.”

Crowley snorts softly about this assumption. “And you wouldn’t understand the slightest of my witty remarks.”

“But that wouldn’t stop you from irritating me,” Aziraphale continues, “you would drag me for a walk in the park, making me laugh while you casually slander about the archangels -”

“- and you would act like ‘Oh my gosh, that’s ridiculous and blasphemous’ but in fact you’re enjoying every bloody minute just as I do -”

“- and you would tempt me to a spot of lunch just to prolong the moment of our get-together -”

“- and you would gladly join me,” says Crowley dreamily, allowing himself to bask in the rhapsody they create, “because my gentlemanly nature persuades you AND the prospect of a table for two at the Ritz, ‘course -”

  
“- and gentlemanly as you are, you would let me order everything I like,” Aziraphale smiles, wishing secretly they would never stop fantasizing, “even a bottle of highly prized champagne -”

“- and so we would cheer to the world, sit and talk for hours about how perfectly mundane and fucking unspiritual our lives will be the minute Heaven and Hell stop bothering us -”

“- and that delightful possibility would make you smile, and I would think that it’s adorable.”

The words drop so easily from his lips, and Aziraphale wonders where they suddenly come from. He swallows, a dryness cloying his throat. Even Crowley remains silent for a couple of seconds, knowing it would destroy the bubble they are currently in. A safe but blurry place where there is no black and white, no demon and angel, no right and wrong. Aziraphale’s chest feels tight, but he can’t set an end to all this. To be completely honest, he doesn’t want to, wishes for a time stop just like they had with the boy Adam. Just a second stretched long, to savor all those bittersweet feelings.

 _Don’t... don’t stop me now_ , he’s praying and doesn’t even know to whom he addresses his desperate plea. Aziraphale was always the one who’s pausing and then pressing the rewind button, not able to keep up with Crowley’s fast pacing. Much despite himself he doesn’t freak out this time, even though his heart is a mess of rippling feelings and his nerves working in overload to comprehend the deeper meaning behind that. He’s relishing every word, every gesture, every stroke of fingers across his back as if it could be the last time. 

  
The demon makes the first move, easing the embrace to let their foreheads slightly touch. “That sounds... _nice_ ,” Crowley says, smiling at him, a little wobbly but with eyes glimmering like he really means it.

  
“Indeed,” the angel agrees, feeling strangely lightheaded. He can feel the blow of Crowley’s breath warm over his skin, prickling just above his lips. “Should... should we start with the walk in St. James’s Park then?”

  
Crowley chuckles teasingly and intertwines their fingers, squeezing gently as if it’s nothing and as if it means the world.

  
“But only if you _drag_ me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate every comment and Kudo! Let me know if you like to have a third part ;)


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